


Dean of the Dead

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'abondance par La Dame Marciana [6]
Category: Being Human (UK) RPF, Shaun of the Dead, The Almighty Johnsons RPF, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, HAPPY HALLOWEEN FANDOM, HEY IF THERE WAS A SMUT SCENE IN THE MOVIE THERE WOULD'VE BEEN A SMUT SCENE FOR THIS TOO, Multi, Zombies, also the rating is mainly for the gore and the swearing, also the richard/dean is a past thing woops, but for now you get me running out of original ideas, but hey who knows maybe i'll do smut one-shot spin-offs from this 'verse every now and then, it's shaun of the dead only with dean and aidan, like honestly, no smut this time guys sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's life is going nowhere. His love life is in trouble. He's living with his lay-about childhood best friend and their short-tempered classmate from when they were kids. He's got an issue with his ex-fiance's current fiance. Could anything else <i>possibly</i> go wrong and make things worse?</p><p>How about a zombie apocalypse?</p><p>UPDATE: 2 new chapters (10/18/2013)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's Not That I Don't Like You

**Author's Note:**

> LEGAL DISCLAIMERS: I own LITERALLY NOTHING. Literally. The idea isn't mine, the dialogue isn't mine...LITERALLY NOTHING IS MINE EXCEPT THE NARRATION. Every part of "Shaun of the Dead" that isn't original belongs to Focus Features, and the amazing Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright. I make no actual profit from this work, except that it's fun for me to write, so that's _spiritual_ profit I guess, BUT OTHER THAN THAT. I also do not own any of the people I've shoved into this fic, they are their own people and are in no way affiliated nor approving of this work, but you never know, they might like the idea of being in "Shaun."
> 
> OTHER NOTES:  
> For those of you already familiar with the movie, I changed a few things up, but they're not HUGE changes, just sort of manipulating some characters and situations so that they fit my general alteration.
> 
> If you've seen the movie, great, you already kind of know what happens, but I hope you still enjoy this anyway. :D PS - don't spoil it for other people in the comments. XDDDD
> 
> if you HAVEN'T seen the movie, HUZZAH, this'll be an all new experience for you, XDDDDDDDDD. You don't HAVE to have seen the movie to be able to read this, nor do you HAVE to see it now that you've come across this fic, but yo, go watch "Shaun of the Dead" anyway coz it's EFFING FANTASTIC, although I doubt this fic would ever come anywhere near how great that movie is, I swear.
> 
> PS - Happy Halloween.

“...Dean.”

Dean's head snaps up a little. Oh, that's right. He's in the Winchester.

Not only is he in the Winchester, he's in the Winchester with Aidan.

Not only is he in the Winchester with Aidan, but Aidan's talking to him.

Oh, that's right.

“Yeah?” Dean replies somewhat lamely.

Aidan is looking at him as if he didn't know that Dean had spent the last 30 seconds staring into negative space and had temporarily checked out of their conversation. “Do you see what I'm saying?” Aidan asks him quietly.

Dean nods in affirmation, trying to put on an air that yes, yes he does know. Aidan's probably not fooled though.

“I know he's your best friend,” Aidan says, indicating that no, he isn't fooled, “But you do _live with him_.”

Dean shrugs. “I know.”

“I mean, it's not that I don't _like_ Jared,” Aidan assures him, turning slightly to the left, “Jared, it's not that I don't like you.”

Jared laconically looks up from his game of Bang-Bang Dracula and shrugs. “S'alright,” he says, returning to the fruit game as Aidan re-addresses Dean.

“It'd just be nice if we could...” Aidan suggests carefully.

“Fuck!” Jared exclaims as he misses a point.

“...spend a bit more time together...”

“Bollocks,” Jared hisses as he nearly misses another.

“...Just the two of us...”

“Cock it!” Jared says as he loses rather pointedly.

Dean is just slightly distracted.

“It's just that with Jared here...” Aidan continues, “...Well, it's no wonder I always bring my flatmates out, and that only exacerbates things.”

“...What do you mean?” asks Dean.

“Well, you don't exactly get on, do you?” Aidan tells him truthfully.

“No,” Dean says, dropping his voice and leaning in a little, “what does 'exacerbate' mean?”

“Oh,” Aidan answers, understanding but not judging, “It means 'to make things worse.'”

“Oh right, right,” Dean replies, “Well, I mean...it's not that I don't like Russ and Lenora.” He turns slightly to the left. “Guys, it's not that I don't like you.”

To Aidan's right, Russell and Lenora shrug back at Dean, either bored or annoyed. “S'alright,” they say in unison, though clearly they're more disbelieving than Jared had been.

Dean returns his attentions to Aidan, taking his hand across the table. “And it's not that I don't want to spend time with you, because I do,” he assures Aidan, “It's just...Jared doesn't have too many friends --”

As if on cue, Jared walks up to them and nearly crashes into the table. “Can I get,” he offers with a slightly inebriated smile, “any of you cunts a drink?”

Dean sighs, closing his eyes, releasing Aidan's hand in secondhand embarrassment.

“Anybody?” Jared asks, completely oblivious.

Russell and Lenora can hardly even look up at Jared. “No thank you,” they both reply.

An awkward silence settles around them all. If Dean wasn't so busy trying not to look anyone in the eye, he'd realize that everyone else is similarly busy avoiding everybody else.

Russell's deliberate tone breaks the silence. “I know friends are important to Dean,” he starts, “But you do actually have to set some quality time aside for yourselves.”

Lenora straightens in her chair. “Yeah, I mean, Russ is always taking me to see his listed buildings, and I'm always, you know, dragging him to the theatre...”

If Dean doesn't stop shrugging and waving things off, he thinks, his shoulders are going to come off soon. “I'm not so hot on theatre,” he says almost apologetically.

“Well, how about a nice meal?” Lenora suggests, “It was your anniversary last week, wasn't it?”

“...It was last week,” Russell inputs, and Dean is pretty sure the glare he's shooting him from behind his glasses is accusatory.

“...Oh,” Lenora quips, trying to keep the mood light, “Did you...do anything special?”

Dean isn't sure how to answer that.

But Aidan is. “We came here,” he replies with a short sigh and a significantly disappointed look at Dean.

Dean is about to offer what must be his 400th apology when Jared calls his name, dragging his attention away.

“Hog lumps!” Jared says, and before Dean can really react, he receives a faceful of foil-wrapped pig snacks.

“Dean, what I'm trying to say is,” Aidan says, a little more firmly now, “I need something a little more. More than spending every night in the Winchester. I wanna get out there and do more interesting stuff. I want to live a little. And I want _you_ to want to do it too!”

Dean takes a slow bite of the crisp pork he'd shoved into his mouth quickly while Aidan had been talking. Somehow that just makes the crunching louder. Aidan lets out an exasperated sigh, although Dean can't tell if it's because of the crunching or something else.

“Ugh, listen to me,” Aidan breathes, “I'm beginning to sound like Richard. Not that I know what he sounds like...”

“You still haven't met Richard?!” Russell asks, incredulous, “After you've asked him so many times?!”

“Not _yet_ ,” Dean corrects, indignant.

“Don't you get along with your ex-fiance anymore, Dean?” Lenora asks, not judging him.

Dean nearly chokes. “It's not that I _don't_ get on with him --” he starts to explain until he's interrupted.

“Are you ashamed about what went down, Dean?” Russell asks, definitely judging him.

“No!” Dean answers, “Everything was _fine_! I love Richard.”

“Yeah, _I_ love Richard,” Jared chuckles suggestively.

“Jared...” Dean warns.

“ _He's like butter._..” Jared sings as he puts a pint down for Dean.

“Jared!” Dean exclaims.

“Dean...” Russell and Lenora call.

“Guys --” Dean starts.

“Dean,” Aidan interrupts.

“ _Aidan_ ,” Dean begs off, putting his hands up as if asking for a time-out, “Look...I understand what you're trying to say, and I agree, we should get out there.” Idea. “We'll start tomorrow. I'll book a restaurant. The place that does all the fish. Just the two of us.”

That gets a small smile from Aidan, so Dean presses his luck.

“Things will change,” he says, “I promise.”

Aidan is still smiling. “Really, Dean?”

Dean nods, taking his glass up to his lips and taking a mighty swig.

_Really this time. Really._


	2. You've Got Red On You

Things _never_ change.

There’s no way Dean can blame Aidan for wanting a little bit more out of life. Life itself feels so damn... _blah_ these days, and Dean’s every waking hour tends to drag on for ages. Most days, it feels like Dean’s just going through the motions, just _living_ instead of **_living_**.

_Little town, it’s a quiet village_  
 _Everyday like the one before_  
 _Little town, full of little people_  
 _Waking up to..._

Do the same damn thing they do everyday.

There goes that old guy pushing carts like always, and the check-out girl who looks asleep...

Every morning without fail, people check their phones for mail, but it’s only been 5 minutes since...

Zombieland. That’s what the town is these days. A tired little patch of sleepiness full of people just going through the motions, all bouncing and nodding along to the same lethargic beat of ordinary-ness, if that’s even a word.

The mornings are the worst.

This one is no exception. And Dean isn’t even fully awake yet.

Yawning heavily, he lurches into the living room, where Jared, his rubber shoed feet up on the table, is already having a go on the PS3 and their favourite first-person shooter.(Then again, it doesn’t really look like Jared slept at all last night.) Dean plops down beside him and takes the second controller up.

“Player two has entered the game,” announces a voiceover from the telly.

A beat. And then...

“Haven’t you got work?”

Dean just lets out a huge sigh as he presses a different button.

“Player two has left the game,” says the voiceover as Dean gets up off the couch and leaves Jared to it. Yes, he _does_ have work today.

15 minutes later finds Dean freshly bathed and dressed in his uniform, adjusting his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. Satisfied that he doesn’t look like death at the very least, he closes the bathroom cabinet shut, only to come reflection-to-reflection with a rather exasperated flatmate.

“You _do_ know the front door was open _again_ last night,” Tim informs him.

Dean just sighs in resignation as he pushes past Tim and back down to the kitchen. Unfortunately for him, Tim follows.

“I’m not saying it was you,” Tim says in a low tone as Dean spreads some jam on his toast.

“I know,” Dean replies, because he _does_.

“I’m saying it was Jared,” Tim continues, fixing Dean with a look.

 _Well, who else could it have been, genius?_ Dean would like to say.

“...Right,” Dean says instead.

Tim shakes his head. “I can’t live like this,” he groans, “I mean, just look at the state of it.” Dean knows he means the flat, but Tim waves his hand around a bit in indication anyway. “We’re not students anymore.”

“Tim, just --” Dean begins to say, hoping to defend Jared, but Tim interrupts him. As one does when he’s got something good to say.

“I mean, it’s not like he even brings any real money into the house,” Tim points out.

“Oh come on,” Dean answers, “He brings a bit.”

“What, dealing drugs?”

Dean shrugs dismissively. “Oh, he sells a bit of weed every now and again, you know. _You’ve_ sold puff.”

“Yeah, _once_ ,” Tim reminds him, “At college. To _you_.”

Okay, he has Dean there. Different approach then. “Well, look,” Dean tries, “I’ve known him since primary school, you know. I _like_ having him around, he’s a _laugh_.”

“What, because he can impersonate an orang-utan?” Tim replies, eyebrow raised slightly, “Fuck _-a-doodle-doo_.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Dean sighs, annoyed and completely tired of this talk.

Tim nods. “All right, I admit, he can be pretty funny on occasion,” he agrees, “Like that time we stayed up all night drinking Apple Schnapps and playing _Tekken 2_.”

Dean laughs along with Tim. “Oh yeah!” he recalls, “When was that?”

Tim’s face drops back to seriousness. “That was five years ago,” he informs Dean, who sobers rather quickly, “When is he going home?”

 _He_ is _home, prick_ , Dean would like to say, but he doesn’t. Because it’s Tim. It’s pointless arguing with Tim.

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--

 

Another half hour later and Jared is _still_ at it on the PS3. Dean needs to talk with him though, and he’s got to do it quick, he’s got to get to work, after all.

“Hey, man, listen,” he starts, planting himself behind the couch as an enemy soldier pops up on the television set, “Oh, top left.”

“Got it,” Jared confirms, manipulating his character to swing around in that direction and taking down the sniper.

“I was gonna say...” Dean starts again, but Jared’s run out of ammo, “Reload.”

“I’m on it,” says Jared, turning his character and pressing a few buttons in rapid succession to rearm his weapon.

“Since --” Dean tries, but Jared gets a hostile square in the head, “Oh, nice shot!”

“Thanks,” Jared replies as if it was nothing.

Dean opens his mouth to tell Jared what he has to say, but this time he doesn’t even get to form a word before he’s interrupted. As he usually is when he has something good to say.

Jared’s phone goes off, and Dean aborts pre-word in favour of an exasperated breath.

“Two seconds,” Jared asks him, and he starts groping around the mountains of mess for his mobile.

As if that’s not bad enough, that’s exactly the moment that Tim chooses to come into the living room to check that Dean is sorting Jared out for the day. Seeing that he isn’t and that Jared is on the bloody phone, he holds his hands out in question to Dean. Dean puts his hands up to tell him to wait.

“...I ain’t got nothing,” Jared is saying as Dean moves around the couch to sit beside him, knowing he’s going to have to just get in there if he wants to not be interrupted again, “I’ve only got Henry myself....All right, laters.”

Dean takes a deep breath as Jared hangs up. “Listen --”

“Jared,” Tim interjects, and Dean sighs in annoyance as Tim seats himself on Jared’s other side, “since you’re not working at the moment, could you please clean up a bit?”

“Yep,” Jared replies disinterestedly, his full focus on the video game.

“And if you play the answering machine,” Tim continues, “Could you take down everyone’s messages, not just your own?”

“Yep,” Jared answers, just as detached as before, if not more.

“It’s not that taxing, is it?” Tim asks, “Writing something on a little scrap of paper?”

“Nope,” Jared says, either ignoring or unaware of the baby voice Tim had used at the end of that last sentence.

“Right,” Tim breathes, adjusting his jacket as he stands. He turns to leave, and Dean nearly chokes.

There, on little scraps of paper taped to each other and then to the back of his suit, is the statement “I am a prick,” in Jared’s handwriting.

If Dean doesn’t stop sighing, he thinks, he’s going to end up sighing every last breath out of his body.

“Oh come on, it was pretty funny,” Jared says to Dean once he thinks Tim is out of earshot.

It might have been, honestly, and Dean would’ve laughed if Tim wasn’t so damn serious about the whole thing.

“Will you do what he said though?” he pleads.

Jared just shakes his head. “I ain’t doing _nothing_ for him,” he says firmly.

Dean groans. “Well, do it for me, then,” he answers in exasperation, standing in a huff to follow Tim out the door.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Jared offers, and he sounds it.

Dean gives him a small jerk of his shoulder. “It’s all right.”

“No,” Jared says, “ _I’m sorry, Dean_.”

There’s something in his tone and the way he raises his eyebrows that makes Dean think Jared means _something_ , but he can’t quite figu—

“OH!” Dean gasps, shaking his head to try and get the stink out of his nose as Jared just laughs at him, “Oh my God, that’s _rotten!_ ”

“I’ll stop doing them when you stop laughing,” Jared chuckles, returning to his game.

“I’m _not_ laughing,” Dean tells him, even though he still sort of is, “I’m going.”

The phone rings just as he finishes.

“Get that,” Jared calls to him.

“You get it!” Dean calls back, because he’s halfway towards the door now. He makes it outside just as the answering machine picks up, and a familiar voice gives a cheerful greeting.

And so begins Dean’s O’Gorman’s Morning.

The neighbour’s kid nearly kills him with his football as Dean closes the gate behind him. “Hey!” he exclaims, pointing accusatorily at the kid, two seconds too late to bat the ball away, “You’re dead.”

Dean waves to Tim in his car as he passes crosses the street.

“Spare some change, please, mister?” asks the homeless man on the opposite corner, and yes, this time Dean has some, so he digs his pockets out and hastily shoves what he can into the man’s hand.

He doesn’t see the car coming up as he gets off the curb, but at least it stops in time.

Dean trips over the rise of the sidewalk on the other end of the street. He always misses that, for some reason.

The garbage collector’s radio is turned all the way up again, this time talking about some deep space probe landing back on Earth ahead of schedule or something.

There’s only one other person in the convenience store, but Dean doesn’t really notice him as he goes straight for a Coke Light – no, a Coke, from the fridge.

“Nelson?” Dean calls out at the empty counter, where some slightly strange tabloid headlines catch his attention, “...Nelson?”

A hand flops down heavily onto the papers, startling Dean. “Hello, my friend!” says Nelson in his thick Indian accent, “No beer today?”

Dean manages a tiny smile. “Nah, it’s a bit early for me,” he replies. Not always true, but it is today.

It’s on to the bus from here, and aside from seeing someone out of his window faint on the sidewalk, it’s the same old bumpy bus ride to Foree Electric.

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--

 

“Gather round, everyone. Gather round, please. Gather round.”

Dean’s co-workers drag their feet as they assemble in front of him.

“Now, as well as Mr Sloman being off today,” Dean starts, “I’m afraid Ash is feeling a bit under the weather. So I will be taking charge, as the --”

“Oldest,” says Emmett, pretending to have done so in a hushed tone but not caring to actually doing so in a hushed tone.

“Senior Staff Member,” Dean corrects, indignant, “So if we can all just pull together, I know that --”

 _Ring ring ring ring ring_.

Twice in the same morning, Dean is interrupted by a mobile phone. Emmett just isn’t as polite as Jared in excusing himself to take the call. He doesn’t even leave the assembly, he just takes the call right there.

“Hello? Hello, mate...”

“Emmett!” Dean says in disbelief, but Emmett ignores him.

“I was totally munted last night,” he says into the phone, chewing away on his gum and leaving Dean no choice but to wait until the little fucker is done being a rude piece of shit, “Yeah, I spoke to him. He’s only got Henry.”

Dean lets his irritation out on his pen, beating his palm with it aggressively until it accidentally flies out of his hand and to the floor. He quickly picks it back up, hoping no one saw (everyone saw), and _Oh great, it’s broken_.

“All right, mate. Laters,” finishes Emmett. He hangs up, but just as Dean is about to start up again, he starts texting, clearly in no rush to finish what he’s doing and pocket his phone again before he turns his attention back to Dean. “Continue.”

Dean could have snorted. “Thank you,” he says instead, and picks up where he had left off, “As Mr Sloman always says, ‘There’s no _I_ in _team_ , but there is an _I_ in _pie._ ’ In...‘There’s an _I_ in _meat pie_.’” He’s losing them, he knows it. He’s losing himself, to be honest. “The anagram of ‘meat’ is ‘team...’ I don’t know what he’s talking about.” He decides to end it there. “Look, that’s it. And, Emmett, phones off, yeah? It’s not a social gathering.”

“All right, keep your hair on, granddad,” Emmett laughs unkindly as the assembly disperses.

“Hey, hey, whoa! I’m 35, for Chrissakes,” Dean says defensively, “How old are _you_? 25? 26?”

“Twenty,” Emmett replies, nonchalant.

“Oh,” Dean chokes, “...Look, I know you don’t wanna be here forever. _I_ got things I want to do with _my_ life.”

Emmett gives him a lazy once-over. “...When?”

That brings Dean to a stammering stop.

Emmett points at Dean’s chest. “You’ve got red on you,” he points out before walking off to his station, his mobile phone ringing again.

Dean looks down in confusion.

The bloody broken pen has bled in his shirt pocket.

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--

 

Dean is with a young couple, showing them the basic cable package that they’re offering by going through the channels, when Emmett shouts for him from the counter, making him jump as his attention is ripped away from a news item about some sort of sickness or quarantine.

“I’m with customers!” Dean says.

“It’s your friend!” Emmett tells him, pointing towards the other end of the displays.

The person Dean he sees there makes Dean let out a heavy breath.

“He’s not my friend,” he says to Emmett, “He’s just a guy.”

Offering the couple a quick apology, Dean approaches his visitor, but keeps the counter between them. He takes a deep breath to calm himself.

“...Lee.”

Tall, lithe, irritatingly graceful Lee pivots on his heel to face Dean. “Dean,” he returns just as plainly as he walks up to the counter, “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten about tomorrow.”

“No,” Dean replies, trying to look convincing.

“You told him you’d visit,” Lee says.

Dean tries to keep a look of remembering off his face. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he says as calmly as he can.

“Maybe you could bring the gift you forgot to bring Richard on his birthday,” Lee suggests, face gentle but otherwise passive.

“I was gonna,” Dean answers. ( _Note to self: pick-up something at the thrift shop on the way home._ )

“Maybe not some cheap knock-off from a corner pound store,” Lee says.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Dean shoots back, careful not to grit his teeth at Lee. ( _Note to self: pick-up something at Richard’s favourite book shop on the way home._ )

An uncomfortable, awkward silence passes between them, where both men pointedly look anywhere but at each other. It’s Lee who breaks the silence.

“Well, we’re looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, then,” Lee says, and it would be a nice, pleasant goodbye if not for Lee’s quiet monotone.

“Okay,” is all Dean manages to come up with.

Lee points at Dean’s chest. “You’ve got red on you,” he points out as he takes his leave.

Dean looks down in confusion and a slight panic, only to realize he’s talking about the same fucking ink spot from earlier.

 _That went well_ , Dean thinks ironically to himself as he watches Lee walk out of the electronics store.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a social gathering.”

Dean’s heart nearly stops when Emmett just _slinks_ out of nowhere and talks right into his ear, his teeth clicking on the gum that must’ve lost its flavour hours ago.

“What?” is the only word Dean’s surprised brain can form.

“How come you’re allowed to speak to your friend?” Emmett asks.

“A, he’s not my friend, okay?” Dean tells him, “He’s just a guy. And B, it was an emergency.”

Emmett snorts. “What, like buying a birthday present?” he asks slyly.

“Emmett, no matter _what_ you might think, okay,” Dean counters, “I do not find it difficult to keep my work and my social life separate.” He hopes there was enough finality in his tone to end this conversation.

“Dean! It’s Aidan for you.”

Dean can’t even look away from the smug smile on Emmett’s face to look at the phone that’s being handed to him by another co-worker. _Great timing, Aid._ He takes the phone as calmly as possible.

“Hello?” he says into the phone in as detached a manner as possible.

“Hello, it’s me!” Aidan greets back cheerfully.

Dean presses the phone closer to his ear so that Emmett can’t hear. “Hello,” he says again.

“Just quickly,” Aidan says, “Did you get my message?”

“Yep,” Dean replies in a neutral tone.

“Oh, so it’s all okay, then?” Aidan asks, sounding slightly incredulous.

Dean mimics chatter on his hand to Emmett and rolls his eyes almost too theatrically. “Yep,” he says again.

“Eight o’clock, the place that does all the fish?” Aidan clarifies as Dean acts out being shot in one side of the head and the blood splattering out the other.

“Yeah,” Dean answers flatly.

“Oh, cool,” Aidan sounds _relieved_ , “Well, that’s great. Just ring me later.”

“Goodbye, Aidan,” offers Dean in a professional tone.

“Bye!” Aidan returns brightly, “Bye, bye, bye!” Dean’s pretty sure there’s a kiss at the end of that.

“Aidan from Head Office,” Dean tells an obviously unbelieving Emmett, “It’s nothing to panic about.”

Emmett just snorts.

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--

 

No matter _what_ Lee can say about it, it’s the perfect gift. Never mind that Richard’s got 3 other copies of it, it’s his favourite book, as Dean recalls, and the other ones aren’t exactly in good condition anymo—

Something outside the glass windows catches his eye.

“Sir?...Sir?”

Dean’s drags his attention back to the clerk. “Sorry,” Dean tells her, “It’s for my e...a really good friend.”

The clerk offers him two cards. “‘To a wonderful friend?’” she reads, “Or ‘Pow, Super Friend?’”

Dean blinks out his slight confusion. “Uh...the first one.” As if he’d have gone with the other one, honestly.

He looks out the windows again as the clerk goes off to finish wrapping the gift. His bus will be here any minute now, he wishes the nice lady would pick up the pace a li—

_Holy shit, did that guy just bite the head off of a live fucking pigeon?!_

Dean hadn’t seen clearly. All he’d seen was a sick-looking guy picking a bird up off the grass and bringing it up to his mouth, and then...

And then a bus had whizzed past, and by the time it was gone, so was the bird man.

He nearly leaves the bookstore without the gift in his shock.

But it can’t have been...

_...Nah._

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--

 

Dean is just too thankful to be off the bus at last – the pale woman beside him had been falling asleep on his shoulder the entire ride.

Unfortunately, he has to get off about half a block away from the stop. The rest of the way is blocked by a traffic collision and there’s no more going forward for the bus from here.

Of course, no traffic collision is complete without at least one silly sod gawking at it while walking in the other direction. This particular accident’s silly sod turns out to be Dean, who literally bumps into another person he could have avoided if he’d been watching where he was going.

“Oh my God!” exclaims his victim, who has thankfully managed to stay on her feet, “Dean!”

“...Fern?!” Dean says, surprised. She draws him into a hug.

“How are you doing?” she asks, smiling excitedly up at him, and Dean has to strain to hear her a bit – the driver of the car had crashed right into his car horn.

“Surviving,” Dean replies in an off-handed manner.

“So, are you living around here?” inquires Fern excitedly.

“Um, yeah, are you?” Dean tells her, raising his voice over the combined din of the car horn and the ambulance sirens.

“Yeah, I’ve just bought a place, actually,” Fern answers, struggling to be heard over the noise.

“Bought?”

“I know! Bit grown up, eh?”

They’re both shouting now.

“Are you still with...?”

“Aidan, yeah.”

“That’s great! Glad somebody made it!”

The ambulance sirens have stopped now, but the car horn’s still going.

“How long’s that been now?”

“It’s three years ago last week, actually.”

Ah, there, the noise is gone now.

“Did you do anything special?”

“...Yeah.”

_Note to self: Get home. Get home and get on the fucking phone. Right fucking now!_

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS - yes, that _IS_ Emmett Skilton, and yes, I know he's actually like 23 or 24, but I thought I'd age him down even more just to get that point of "where the hell is dean's life going" across better. :D


	3. So, What's the Plan, Then?

Dean drops literally everything once he’s back in the flat and hastily digs out the directory. It doesn’t take him long to find the number for Fulci’s, and thankfully, the line isn’t engaged.

That’s about as far as his good luck goes though.

It takes for _ever_ for someone to pick up the phone.

“Come on!” Dean growls desperately, pacing between the foyer and the living room, where Jared still hasn’t moved from his video game all day.

“Are you gonna thank me, then?” asks Jared.

“For what?” Dean returns in reply.

“Tidying up,” Jared points out.

Dean swivels quickly on the spot, surveying his surroundings. “It doesn’t _look_ very tidy,” he says. The phone is still pressed to his ear, and no one is picking up. He’s _vibrating_ with desperation and panic.

“Well, I had a few beers when I finished,” Jared retorts, as if that justifies everything.

Dean is about to answer back when the ringing _finally_ stops and someone answers his call.

“Hello, Fulci’s,” says a voice, and Dean is about to greet him back, but... “Can you hold, please?”

Dean groans in frustration. His head is starting to ache.

“Do you want your messages?”

Dean swings around. “What?!” he asks Jared, as if the question hadn’t been clear.

“Well, Richard rang about going round tomorrow night,” Jared replies, reading off some little scraps of paper he’d written the messages on, “Then Aidan rang about the two of you eating out tonight. And then Richard rang back to see if I wanted to eat _him_ out tonight.”

“ _What?!_ ” Dean hisses in shock, but Fulci’s chooses that moment to take his call back up, “Yeah, hi, I know this is _really_ short notice, but could you possibly do me a table for two tonight at about 8:00?”

“No, sorry,” answers Fulci’s, “we just gave away the last table.”

In his frustration, Dean shoves the side of the phone into his mouth and _bites_ as hard as he can. But he catches himself a split second later, and takes a breath. It doesn’t do much to calm him down.

Maybe seeing how on-edge Dean is, Jared offers up a lazy, “Wasn’t true about Rich.”

“What am I gonna do?!” he asks out loud, “Where are we gonna go?!”

“The Winchester,” Jared suggests.

“Don’t be stupid!” Dean snorts, “They don’t _do_ food.”

“There’s a Breville out back!” Jared reminds him, “John’ll do you a toastie.”

“Jaz, this is _serious_!”

Jared just shrugs. As he turns back to his game, the phone rings in Dean’s hand, and he picks up, unable to keep from sounding harassed.

“Hello, it’s me!” Aidan greets cheerfully.

 _Oh SHIT._ “Hellooooo,” Dean greets back, keeping his voice light.

“So, what’s the plan, then?” Aidan asks, clearly excited.

“Um...” Dean hesitates, “Yeah, there’s been a bit of a mix-up with the table, babe.”

“Wh...What do you mean?” replies Aidan, and the confusion in his voice only serves to make Dean feel even worse.

“They’re...They’re full up.”

“But...I thought you said it was all okay.” Aidan sounds more and more disappointed with every word.

“...Yeah.”

The two beats of silence that pass before Aidan speaks again are heavy, and when Aidan does say something again, his voice is heavy too.

“You didn’t book it,” Aidan says for him, “Did you, Dean?”

Dean thinks it best to just go with the truth now. “...No.”

A huge sigh. “So...What is the plan, then?”

Dean turns to Jared for help. Jared holds up his thumbs and index fingers to form a W.

Dean cringes. He already knows Aidan’s answer to the suggestion he’s about to make. “...The Winchester?”

 _Click_.

Okay, Dean was _wrong_ about Aidan’s answer. He’d expected to be shouted at, or have his ear lectured off.

This is way, _way_ worse.

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--

 

 _Buuuuuzz_.

“Hello?” comes Lenora’s sing-song voice over the intercom.

“Len, can you let me in please?” asks Dean, one hand in his pocket, while the other one is clutching the gift he’d bought earlier.

“I’m not sure this is the best time, Dean,” Lenora answers in a slight whisper.

“Oh, come on!” Dean begs.

“Aidan doesn’t want to see you, Dean,” Russell interjects, “Go. Away.”

For some odd reason, Russell’s voice is far more annoying right now than it ever has been. “Just open the door!” Dean demands.

“He doesn’t want to see you, Dean!” Russell emphasizes.

“What do you want me to do?” Dean asks, “Do you want me to climb up the wall, come through the window? Coz I will!”

“You’re not coming in,” Russell says with firm finality.

“All right,” Dean snorts, “See you in a minute!”

“Don’t!” Russell warns, but Dean barely hears it. He’s already at the side of the building. He shoves the gift into his mouth and tries to climb the drain pipe to the fire exit at Aidan’s window. One foot up...Two feet...Two and a half...Three and one quarter...

_Nope._

Dusting himself off and pointedly trying not to wince at the pain from where he landed on his butt, he hobbles over to the intercom and presses the button for Aidan’s pad again.

“Hi, it’s me again.”

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--

 

Aidan slams the bathroom cupboard shut. In the mirror, Dean can see how firmly Aidan’s jaw is set.

“Aidan, can we just talk about this?” he pleads, “You know, let’s go out.”

“What, to the Winchester?” Aidan answers in a slightly mocking tone.

“...Do you want to?” Dean asks, regretting the question as soon as it leaves his lips.

“No, I don’t fucking want to!” Aidan shouts at him, stomping past him and out of the bathroom.

“Okay,” Dean replies in a placating tone as he follows behind Aidan, “I just thought, you know --”

“It’s not the only place in the world, Dean!” Aidan points out angrily as they come out of the corridor and back into the receiving area, where Russell and Lenora are huddled, listening from the main living room.

“Well, we could go to The Shepherd’s, then,” Dean offers, stuttering a little, “They do Thai in there now.”

“I’m going out with Russell and Len,” Aidan declares.

“Well, let’s all go together!” Dean suggests a little desperately.

“What, you hang out with my friends?” Aidan asks, sceptical, “Sorry, a failed actress and a twat?”

Dean is a little taken aback. “Well, _that’s_ harsh.”

“ _Your_ words!” Aidan shoots back.

“I did _not_ call Lenora a failed actress!” Dean retorts, his voice rising a bit as well now. Aidan just snorts and pushes out into the main area with Russell and Lenora.

“Let’s just go out, you know,” Dean pleads, following Aidan, “Let’s just go out somewhere and have a laugh. Things’ll be fine, I promise.”

Aidan raises an eyebrow at him. “You promised you’d stop smoking when I did,” he reminds Dean.

“Wha--”

“You promised you’d go back to the gym!”

“I--”

“You promised you’d try drinking red wine instead of beer!”

“Well--”

“You promised you’d come on holiday with me.”

“We went to New Zealand, didn’t we?!”

“ _We_ met _in New Zealand._ ”

(“At a rave,” Russell inputs.)

“It’s just _not_ the same!” Aidan huffs, “You promised things would change.”

For some odd reason, Lenora chooses this very moment to pipe in herself. “You promised you’d get us free cable,” she tells Dean.

“I’m working on that!” Dean tells her for what feels like the 50th time already, and Lenora backs off, so Dean addresses Aidan again. “Well, I can give up smoking. I can give up whenever I want.” Dean pulls his pack of cigarettes from out of his pocket and waves them in the air for Aidan to see. “Look, see?” He chucks the cigarettes away, missing Aidan’s hair by a scant few inches. “Don’t need them. What...What was the next one?”

But Aidan lets out a breath, his shoulders sagging, his big brown eyes sad as they glare at Dean. “It’s not enough, Dean,” he says in a hushed tone, and as Aidan stomps off to his bedroom, Dean wishes he had just gone on shouting at him. That would have been easier to accept, because it would have been out of anger only.

But this? This is disappointment.

This is way, _way_ worse.

Dean thinks he’s about to cry, and he probably would have started crying too, if Russell didn’t choose that exact moment to gloat.

“Basically,” Russell says, his trademark low voice and slow inflections grating on Dean’s patience, “I’d say your nine lives are up, Dean.”

“Get _fucked,_ four eyes!” Dean hisses, “Why don’t _you_ go out with him, then, if you love him so much?!”

Russell seems to freeze for a while. “...What do you mean by that?”

Dean just lets out a disbelieving, humourless, single laugh before removing himself to Aidan’s room.

“...I don’t know what he meant by that,” he faintly hears Russell say to Lenora.

Aidan is sitting at the edge of his bed, on comforters he and Dean had picked out together a few months ago. He’s doubled over, his elbow on his knee and his head in his open hand. He looks up when he sees Dean approach him, tentative.

Dean reaches out the wrapped parcel in his hand. “Got you this,” he says softly, and Aidan gives him a small smile out of the corner of his mouth as he takes it from him. Aidan turns it over in his hand as Dean seats himself beside him on the bed.

“...’To a wonderful friend?’”

 _Oops_. “Yeeeah,” Dean stammers, “That’s because I thought it would be funny because of what you said last night, you know, you don’t wanna be Richard again, and that, it’s...it’s just a little...joke. Just something I thought of. Spur of the moment.”

Even to his own ears, it sounds like a lame excuse.

“...It’s for Richard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Smooth.” Aidan shoves the gift back at him.

Dean doesn’t quite know what to say, and for a few seconds, they just sit there. Something nice should be happening by now, Dean is convinced, but...

Aidan lets out a sigh. “Look, if I don’t do something,” he starts softly, “I’m gonna end up in that pub, every night, for the rest of my life, like thise other sad old fuckers, drinking myself to death, wondering what the hell happened.”

Dean blinks at him, even if Aidan isn’t looking at him at all.

“...What do you mean, ‘do something?’”

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--

 

_Slam._

That’s it then.

That’s it.

Just like that.

It’s over.

They’re over.

There’s a lot Dean still wants to say, but they’re all jumbled up and tangled and caught in his throat, clogging there and keeping him from breathing properly. There are tears stinging his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.

Oh, no, wait.

_BOOM._

No, that’s rain. And a thunderstorm.

 _Sniffle_. _Sniffle._

 _Those_ are the tears.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Sort Your Fucking Life Out, Mate!

“Fuck him.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. In front of him, his lager has lost most of its foam. He’s soaked through, having walked and walked and walked in the rain without an umbrella and somehow ending up here at the Winchester. His mood has not improved at all, even with Jared arriving after he’d called him. The couple he’d seen necking just outside the pub doors hadn’t helped at all either, and all it had made Dean want to do was chuck the gift in his hand into the rubbish bin. Which he did. Dean looks up at Jared now through wet eyes, his vision hazy, his head throbbing, his nose running both from the crying and from the cold of the rain.

“You got your pint,” Jared continues, “You got your pig snacks. What more do you want?”

He wants to say _Aidan_ , because he does, he _does_ still want Aidan, he’s never going to stop wanting Aidan, but he can’t even bring himself to think his name without choking up.

“Oh,” Jared says in realization, smiling a little, “Your favourite monkey? Shall I do Clyde?”

Clearly Jared is misinterpreting the look on Dean’s face. He goes into his routine, jutting his lower jaw out and knocking on the wood of the table with his knuckles as if his arm is too heavy for him to carry. He grunts from deep in his lungs and beats his chest, then picks up his empty pint and brings it to his mouth, tipping it to his lower lips like a pitcher to water before setting it down and beating his chest some more. He ends with a wet raspberry and a dirty finger.

It just makes Dean feel worse, and he sighs, putting his elbow up on the table and rubbing at his forehead.

“See?” Jared says proudly, “I _knew_ you’d get over her!”

Just then, an achingly familiar intro starts playing on the jukebox, causing tears to well up in Dean’s eyes again.

 _If you leave me now,_  
You’ll take away the biggest part of me  
Oooh, no  
Baby please, don’t go...

“Who the hell put _this_ on?!” Jared asks no one in particular, annoyed on behalf of Dean.

“It’s on random,” Dean weeps.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jared grunts, turning back and raising his voice to the bar, “John, yes, please, mate!”

Three more pints later, and the waterworks have stopped, both outside and on Dean’s face. John has closed up for the night, but is letting his regulars stay in a bit longer.

“You know what we should do tomorrow?” Jared suggests as Dean tucks into his fourth glass for the night, “Keep drinking. We’ll have a Bloody Mary first thing. Have a bite at the King’s Head, couple at The Little Princess, we’ll stagger back here and _bang_ , we’re back at the bar for shots! How’s _that_ for a drop of chilli chocolate?”

Dean tries to shake the alcohol clouds out of his brain. “No,” he breathes.

“Come on, man!” Jared urges, taking a big puff of his cigarette as he decides to change tactics, “Talk to me.”

“He said if he stayed with me,” Dean recounts, “He’d end up coming in here, every night, for the rest of his life, like these sad old fuckers, drinking himself to death, wondering what the hell happened.”

“That is _harsh_ ,” Jared hisses, waving an arm at the rest of the patrons, “These are rich, interesting characters!”

“Like who?”

Jared nods his head towards the bar, where a thin, greying old man in a leather jacket and shiny boots is smoking as if he’s the sexiest thing since magazine swimwear issues. “Snakehips,” Jared calls him, dropping his voice to a whisper, “Strangled his first wife with a draught excluder. And he invented the mobile disco.”

Dean snorts out a bit of a chuckle, turning away from Snakehips. His eyes land on the woman behind Jared. She’s always there, in that same spot. Dean has often wondered if she goes home at all. “Well, what about _her_ then?”

Jared spares her just a moment’s glance before fixing Dean with an achingly serious look on his face. And then...

“Cockacidal maniac.”

Dean bursts out laughing. It could be the alcohol, or it could actually be because it’s a funny thing to say, but at least he’s laughing.

“She’s an ex-porn star,” Jared continues, “She’s done it all. They say she starred in the world’s first interracial hardcore loop.”

Dean is still laughing, now more of a silent, breathless laughter, when Jared mimes a cock thrusting into a cunt (or it could be an arse) with his hands.

“ _Cafe au lait,_ ” Jared moans mockingly, “ _Pour vous._ ”

Dean cackles a bit, and coughs back the rest of his laughter as he juts a thumb backwards at the barkeep and his wife. “What about John, then?”

“He’s North London Mafia,” Jared narrates, and Dean snorts in disbelief, “It’s true, Big Al says so.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean counters, “Big Al also says that fish don’t sleep.”

Jared scoffs. “Think about it,” he says, “Handy with a blade. Gruff demeanour. Bernie, the trophy wife....He’s connected. Why do you think there’s a rifle above the bar?”

“Coz the pub’s called the Winchester.”

“ _Exactly_.”

Dean laughs again, and Jared smiles affectionately at him.

“See? You don’t need Aidan to have a good time,” Jared points out.

Damn. And they were doing _so well_.

“Oh, Jaz, _don’t_ , man,” Dean pleads.

“No, hey, look at me,” Jared says firmly, “Can I just say one more thing? I’m not gonna say, you know, ‘There’s plenty more fish in the sea.’ I’m not gonna say, ‘If you love her, let her go.’ And I’m not gonna bombard you with clichés. But what I _will_ say is this.” He shrugs to show nonchalance. “It’s not the end of the world.”

Dean knows he’s right. This is a setback, a major one, but just a setback, nonetheless. He can’t just stop going on, because the world isn’t exactly on the brink of an apocalypse, is it? It’s going to keep going.

And this, _this_ is why Dean likes having Jared around. _This_ is why Jared is his best mate. _This_ is why he’s _proud_ to call Jared his best mate.

Dean is brought out of his reverie by a banging on the windows on the pub doors. He and Jared both turn to find the silhouette of a man knocking rather sloppily on the panes.

“Sorry, we’re closed!” John calls.

The man lets out a long, low moan of inebriated disappointment.

“Pisshead,” Jared chuckles.

 

\--+--+--+--+--+--+--+--

 

 _“White lines_ ,” Dean and Jared sing together, slurring, as they hobble out of the pub and out to the curb, “ _Visions and dreams of passion, blowing through my mind_ , _and all the while I think of you, High –_ ”

They stop abruptly when they notice the couple furiously necking just by the pub windows.

“What’s wrong?” Jared says to them, although it’s clear they can’t hear (or understand) him, “Haven’t you had your tea?”

Dean snickers, and they take up the song from there, walking away, just as the head of the man falls completely off his shoulders. But Dean and Jared are far too caught up in their harmonizing and blending to notice.

Dean hits a note, and out of nowhere, a random stranger joins in, sounding far more drunk than they both are. Dean and Jared share a look.

“ _Doo-be-dut-doo-dut-doo-roo-doo._ ”

Groooooooooan.

“ _Doo-be-dut-doo-dut-doo-roo-doo._ ”

GROOOOOOOOOOOAN.

“What’s he doing?” Jared asks Dean.

“He should say ‘Bass,’” Dean tells Jared.

“Or ‘Freeze,’” Jared adds.

They both scoff and shake their head.

“What a tit.”

Back at the flat, Dean breaks out his old turntabl and his vinyl 45’s from his DJing days, and puts on a house favourite. Jared shoves a hat onto Dean’s head, and Dean turns it sideways before cranking up the music. Drunk and just trying to enjoy the night, they start to dance and riff and sing and beatbox along, and it feels good to just be doing _this_ again, to just _laugh_ , and hey, Dean still knows how to scratch like the best of the---

Tim abruptly shows up out of nowhere and grabs the record right out of the player.

“Hey, don’t scratch it!” Dean protests as Tim stomps towards the window, and Dean realizes what he’s about to do, “WAIT!”

But it’s too late. Tim flings the LP out the window without another care for where it might land or what could happen to it.

“That was the second album I ever bought!” Dean whines.

“It’s 4:00 in the fucking morning!” Tim spits.

“It’s Saturday!” Dean argues.

“No, it’s not,” Tim corrects, “It’s fucking Sunday, and I’ve got to got fucking work in four fucking hours, because every other fucker in my fucking department is _fucking ill_! Now can you see why I am so fucking angry?!”

“Fuck yeah,” Jared answers just as aggressively.

“Hey!” Dean jumps in before Tim can jump Jared, “Tim, look, I’m sorry, we just...We’ve had a couple of drinks. We split up with Aidan tonight.”

Fortunately, Tim seems to understand. He nods and sighs a bit through his nose. “Just keep it down, yeah?” he requests.

Dean gives him a thumbs up, and that seems to satisfy Tim. But as Tim walks away...

“...Prick.”

 _Oh shit, Jared_.

Tim stops in his tracks. “What was that?”

Behind Dean, Jared shrugs. “Nothing.”

Tim swivels on the spot and lunges at Jared, but Dean steps between them and pushes at Tim to keep him away.

“No no no come on, stop it!” Dean coaxes, “We’re friends!”

“He’s not my friend,” Tim points out, “He’s a _fucking idiot!_ ”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?!” Jared asks, seeming to actually be offended.

“It means, why don’t you _fuck off_?!” Tim hollers, “You wanna live like an animal, go and live in the shed, you thick fuck!”

That’s just too far now. “Oh, leave him alone!” Dean shouts back at Tim, if a little slurred.

“Stop defending him, Dean!” Tim yells, “All he ever does is hold you back! Or does it make your life easier having someone around who’s more of a loser than _you_ are?”

Oh no, he didn’t.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Dean challenges.

“You know what I mean,” Tim snorts, “I assume it was _Aidan_ who did the dumping?”

This hits home far too hard, and Dean is left speechless and thinking on Aidan again. He comes crashing back down to earth, depression weighing him down.

Tim points a finger at him. “Sort your fucking life out, mate!” he advises.

“What’s up with your hand, man?” Jared asks, and only then does Dean notice the bandages.

Tim sniffs indignantly. “I got mugged on the way home from work,” he replies.

“By who?” Jared laughs.

“I don’t know, some crackheads or something. One of them bit me.”

“Why’d they bite you?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t stop to ask them!” Tim retorts, but Jared just laughs mockingly at him, so he starts to walk away instead. “Now, I’ve got a splitting headache, and your stupid hip-hop isn’t helping. And the front door is open! AGAIN!” He slams it shut, disappearing up the stairs at last.

“It’s not hip-hop,” Jared mutters, “It’s Electro. Prick. Next time I see him, he’s dead.”

Dean barely hears or registers any of it. As Jared retires to the couch, murmuring to himself, Dean staggers out of the living room and to the foyer, where he clicks the answering machine, until he finds himself in the kitchen, in front of the fridge.

“ _Hello, Dean, it’s me!_ ” Aidan greets cheerfully; it’s the message from just before Dean had left for work, “ _Look, um, I’m gonna be a bit tied up today, so when you book the table, can you make it 8:00 rather than 7:00? I’ll try you at work. Bye, bye, bye!_ ”

If Dean wasn’t so down and drunk, he’d probably have heard the smile in Aidan’s voice. Like he usually does.

The machine beeps and starts to play the next message. Dean hobbles towards the fridge and reaches for the pen tied to the magnetic white board they’ve stuck onto its door.

“ _Hello, Deano, it’s Richard,_ ” greets his ex, his pleasant, calming baritone filling the air as Dean scribbles clumsily on the whiteboard, “ _Lee said he saw you in town today and mentioned you might be visiting tomorrow, which would be really good. Are you going to bring Aidan this time? Only you said he wanted to meet me and I’ve always thought it’d be nice to meet him especially since he’s your plus-one for the wedding. And also, I was wondering if he wanted anything specific for lunch. I just want to be sure if he’s a vegetarian or a vegan so we can be better prepared..._ ”

Dean dots an _i_ aggressively on the board, and the action causes him to wobble backwards, until he crashes into the kitchen counter and slinks to the floor, passing out from inebriation and exhaustion almost in an instant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I changed "a slice of fried gold" and "Dogs can't look up," because I felt like those were trademark Pegg/Frost/Wright and I didn't wanna take that from them (i think both phrases were also used in "Spaced," or at least the "dogs" line was), so I changed them to "a drop of chili chocolate" (becAUSE WOW HAVE YOU TRIED CHILI CHOCOLATE GELATO OMG IT'S AMAZESAUCE) and "Fish don't sleep."


End file.
